


Brevity and Opulence

by loveindirtytrenchcoats



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond - All Media Types, SPECTRE (2015)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Do Not Translate, Eve Moneypenny Ships James Bond/Q, Fix-It, Hurt!Q, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Post-SPECTRE, Referenced Bond/Madeleine, SPECTRE Fix-It, Spoilers for SPECTRE
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-10 13:57:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5588704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveindirtytrenchcoats/pseuds/loveindirtytrenchcoats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s no time to grab anything to defend himself with, because the first hinge on the door snaps open with a bang, and the second follows on the next hit. The door rips backwards, thrown to the floor by the same man Q had been in the ski lift with, who smiles menacingly and draws a knife from his jacket. The Quartermaster wonders how long it will take for James to realise he’s missing. </p><p>Before the henchman even gets in his first hit, Q knows it’ll be too late.</p><p>  <em> [SPECTRE semi-rewrite, inspired by the well known draft script] </em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Brevity and Opulence

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever 00Q fic, which I've busted out over the past week of obsessing. It's become a little unhealthy.

The room is cold.

A bitter wind blows through the smashed window, shards of glass littering the harsh blue floor. The desk is upturned on the floor, half-burnt papers strewn everywhere. The red stains are stark in their contrast against the dull, muted colours of the furniture.

There’s gunshot damage along the wooden balcony railings, some of the spindles splintered away, and Bond feels his stomach drop.

A track of blood leads into the bathroom, and he’s quick to lift his gun, striding across the room. He gestures Madeleine behind him, and she obeys this time, breathing harshly in the aching silence of the hotel room. The door has been pulled off its hinges, and Bond’s mind has already come up with a map of what happened here – _victim locked self in bathroom; victim destroyed evidence; targets broke in; targets beat & dragged victim outside; victim probably unconscious; abduction time estimated to 50 minutes previously_.

Sometimes he wishes he didn’t have those skills.

The bathroom is empty – painfully so – and in the sink, battered to pieces, lies Q’s laptop. Its screen still uselessly flickers, but the hard drive is broken, and Bond knows he should be thankful for that. Funnily enough, it doesn’t bring much comfort in the situation.

A tap is running hot water, the room is steamed up, and that’s when both he and Madeleine notice the writing in the mirror, drawn by Q’s own hand. It reads only one word:

_SPECTRE._

 

~*~

 

Q wasn’t made for field missions.

He knows it the second he sees the henchman sit down opposite him, and starts trying to plan an exit in the next second, as he peers down through the glass of the cable-car. There’s no escape, not unless he wants to fall to a snowy death, and the idea isn’t very appealing.

He unfolds his laptop, desperate to help 007 as much as he possibly can. The allure of the legend that Bond is, he supposes. Ignoring the sinister, almost hungry stare from the man across from him, he sets up an analysis of the ring.

Q has read Bond’s file. He knows the faces that come up on his screen – Sciarra, Silva, Le Chiffre, Greene – and he knows that this means… Bond was right. Something much bigger is going on.

They come up to the next stop on the lift, and Q slams his laptop closed, shooting to his feet and heading for the door, but there’s another man there who stares levelly at him, threatening and still. Thankfully, a group of giddy snowboarders push through and force Q back to his seat, at least postponing his fate for now.

 _Christ_ – of all people he could end up becoming fond of, it just _had_ to be 007.

When the door next slides open, the biting air flooding back in, Q rushes out and begins shoving past people in his way, scanning the crowd for the closest exit. He can’t see one in sight and the henchmen are hot on his heels, so heads to the open slope in front of him.

Q pauses at the height of the drop, panting, and looks toward the snow-heavy trees, whispering under his breath.

“Shit.”

The first step is jarring enough – the next twenty down the steep hill even worse. He tries to weave through the trees, hearing bullets whipping past him and striking icy trunks, trying to remember where he parked his jeep, his laptop bag slamming back against his legs as he moves. It’s beyond this ski route and round to the right, if his recall is accurate, but he’s running out of time.

The snow kicks up around his legs, and it’s hard not to trip when the powder is nearly up to his knees. He hears screams coming from the skiers on the track parallel to them and sees a few shedding their skis in an attempt to run away from the shots, just as he comes to the end of the hill here. It’s hard to slow down, but he manages to wind around the curve, sprinting to what would have been the next stop if he’d been able to stay in the cable car.

His cheeks are going numb from the cold, and he can feel the sweat on his jumper cooling uncomfortably. The shots have stopped, so he guesses they must be reloading, and continues along the straight but dangerous path to the small building, behind which his jeep is – hopefully – still parked. There’s a steep drop coming up with no barrier, and he’ll fall if he doesn’t make it around the narrow corner to the building’s entrance.

Wasting a precious second to look over his shoulder, Q sees the two men are only about a hundred or so feet behind him. He doesn’t have long.

It’s just before he makes the lethal turn that he hears it – another shot – and feels fire rip through his upper arm.

Q cries out in pain, stumbling in the haze of shock, then rights himself again and keeps running. Blood drains from the wound, soaking the inside of his jacket and coat, but he can see it’s only – Jesus Christ, _only_ – grazed and torn up the outside of his bicep and that it’s probably not serious. _Probably_.

The agony is still intense, but he knows if he doesn’t keep moving it’s going to get a lot worse. The building is packed with enough people to hide him amongst the crowds, and he uses it to his advantage, ducking in different directions to disguise himself.

The henchmen look lost as he sneaks out an emergency exit, and Q uses the precious time as wisely as he can, kicking a blond skier in the shin and not waiting to see them turn to the person next to them, not realising it was Q who did it and starting a fight. Pressing one hand to the gaping flesh of his arm, Q hisses and keeps running.

He wrenches open the door of his 4x4, clambering inside and scrambling for the keys in his pocket. He realises his hands are shaking uncontrollably and that they’re slick with blood, and struggles not to drop what he’s holding. Getting the key in the ignition is even more of a challenge, and by the time he’s reversing out of his space and flooring it to the icy roads beyond, he can see the henchmen in his wing mirrors breaking into their own jeep.

The roads are perilous, especially while fighting the pain of a gunshot wound, and the wheels sometimes slip and skid as he battles Austrian terrain on the way back to his hotel. It’s a fifteen minute drive, at least, and he’s dreading every second of it. He doesn’t have the road skills of Bond or Moneypenny or _anyone_ who’s been out in the field, and feels near to crashing about every ten seconds.

Q can feel the sweat on his spine and forehead, and his blood rushes in his ears. He checks the rear-view mirror for what must be the hundredth time – he’s lost count – but it’s blissfully empty of the hijacked jeep.

When he finally pulls up to the Pevsner Hotel, clipping a flowerbed in his rush to brake, it only takes minutes to stumble his way up the stairs to room 12, ignoring the long looks he gets from other guests. Slamming the door closed and locking it behind him, Q knows it won’t be long before the men find him again.

He heads over to the desk, turning on his laptop and clicking it into self-sabotage mode, then picks up his papers and rushes out onto the balcony. He works on setting the documents on fire, and only a minute’s passed when the balcony rail explodes just in front of him, a few splinters digging into his skin as they fly by.

“Shit! Shit shit _shit_ ,” Q swears – all he seems able to say at the moment – and runs back inside.

The laptop’s not even half-finished destroying itself, so Q spends another minute stuffing as many of his belongings into a bag as possible. Someone starts pounding on the door, and the hinges tremble. Knowing there’s nowhere left to run, Q grabs his laptop and prays for a miracle.

Locking himself in the bathroom, he takes to bashing his computer against the sink until it’s a complete mess, making sure to focus the hits on where the hard drive is. Tears spring to the Quartermaster’s eyes, and he forces himself to keep going, even with the aching burn that’s spread all the way over his shoulder and chest. He briefly considers calling Bond, but knows he’s probably busy and that it wouldn’t be a particularly good idea anyway – it reminds him that he needs to destroy his phone, too, and he takes to smashing that against the porcelain too.

 _Do one more thing_ , Bond had said, _do one more thing and you’re out_. Q tries not to think too hard about why he went along with it.

The men in the bedroom are talking to one another, their words muffled, and the thumping that comes on the bathroom door is loud and terrifying. Q tries not to panic, but it’s getting harder. In the last few seconds he has, he scrawls out the organisation name he’d found while analysing the ring in the dry, polished mirror, and turns on the hot tap. The water flows over his computer and phone, and he mourns them for a moment, then hopes that the message will be visible by the time 007 gets here. He’ll help James, even if it really is the last thing he ever does. The thought almost makes him laugh, and he wonders what else he’d be willing to do for Bond if someone asked – laying down his life seems almost comically Hollywood, and he can scarcely believe he’s really doing it.

He got on a bloody _plane_ to get here, for god sake.       

There’s no time to grab anything to defend himself with, because the first hinge on the door snaps open with a bang, and the second follows on the next hit. The door rips backwards, thrown to the floor by the same man Q had been in the ski lift with, who smiles menacingly and draws a knife from his jacket. The Quartermaster wonders how long it will take for James to realise he’s missing.

Before the henchman even gets in his first hit, Q knows it’ll be too late.

 

~*~

 

“007, what news?”

Eve’s voice is surprisingly soothing, but James doesn’t have the time to relish in it.

“It’s Q,” he says curtly, carelessly rifling through the scattered papers in case his Quartermaster left behind any more clues.

“Q?” Moneypenny asks, talking under her breath – she must be at HQ. “He’s taken a day off, _finally_ – do you want me to call-“ 

“He’s not at home,” Bond cuts her off. “He followed me to Austria. He’s been taken.”

“ _Taken_? By whom?” Eve sounds a little shaken, but it pales in comparison to what Bond’s feeling.

“Oberhauser. Not as dead as first thought.” James intones, frustration and worry ratcheting up the longer he spends idling around. “It’s my bloody fault, too – if I hadn’t gotten him involved-”

“I can’t do anything for him, James,” Moneypenny says, slowly, dread settling into her tone.

“What?”

“Haven’t you seen the news?” Eve asks, and James turns instantly to the thankfully still-intact television, switching it on to a news channel.

Breaking news headlines flash across the screen blaring the tragedy of the day – a terrorist attack in Cape Town.

“The Nine Eyes vote has gone through, in a meeting Max didn’t seem to think was worth calling upon M for,” Moneypenny explains, and James understands. “He’s dismantling the 00 Section.”

Bond turns around quickly, grabbing Madeleine’s hand as he passes her, pulling her out through the door and down the hall. They need to get moving, and soon.

“Look up the name ‘ _L’Americain’_ for me,“ he requests, heading towards the hotel exit. “I need to know everything we’ve got on him.”

“It’s not a person.” Dr Swann interrupts before Eve can even get a word in. “It’s a place.”

Bond’s brain is already working.

“I’ll let you know if I hear anything, James,” Moneypenny says solemnly, sensing her use in this conversation coming to an end. “Good luck.”

She hangs up, and Bond shoves his phone in his pocket, unlocking the car and getting in.

Madeleine’s gentle, accented voice is loud in the quiet of the Austrian mountains.

“SPECTRE,” she says, looking straight ahead, “is the name of the organisation you’re looking for. My father was a part of it.”

“Where is it?” Bond asks, putting the key in the ignition.

Madeleine looks at him, finally, her eyes dark and haunted. “Tangier.”

“Well then,” James says, trying his best to be light-hearted, shifting into reverse, “we better get a move on.”

 

~*~

 

Madeleine is no longer with him.

He’d asked Franz earlier where Q was, quietly demanding to know, but his brother had staunchly refused, still smiling slightly. The knowledge that the Quartermaster has been in enemy hands for two days now and could be fucking _dead_ for all Bond knows, is terrifying to say the least. His guilt has been increasing with every passing hour, and now knowing that he’s got Swann muddled up in this mess too, he can’t help but chastise himself endlessly. Unless Moneypenny has called on M, or managed to do anything herself, they’re all lost out here. Six won’t be riding to the rescue on white horses.

Franz picks up on James’s concern for his Quartermaster, and Bond knows it won’t bode well for him. He’d promised he’d given up on getting attached when… Vesper. And sworn again after that, but then _M_.

Oberhauser has been pointing out that everyone James cares about dies around him, and it’s hard not to think on Q. _Weakness_ – that’s what caring is – but he never could stop it.

A henchman drags him down a long corridor, Franz walking calmly ahead. There are a set of steel doors along one wall, each with only a slit in the thick metal through which to see inside. The guards’ hands are rough as they shove him toward the one open door.

“Where is he?” Bond asks again, getting increasingly desperate. “ _Where is Q?_ ”

Oberhauser smiles again. James remembers it, on a younger face.

“Your next door neighbour,” he says, as Bond is slammed up against the slit in the closed door, one hand in his hair forcing him to look.

The view isn’t clean, but James can see enough.

Q is slumped against the wall; beaten, unconscious. His glasses are nowhere in sight, and James suddenly has a striking memory of the younger man on a Monday morning in Q Branch, angrily hunting for his glasses in a room full of dangerous, half-finished prototypes. It’s a stark difference to the cold, shadowy, unmoving figure he’s looking at now. There’s blood across almost every inch of clothing, but Bond can’t see clearly enough to make out individual injuries.

“He touchingly refused to help us track your ‘ _special blood_ ’.” Franz’s voice is jarring, cold. Amused, even. “The man is barely alive, but I saved him so you might watch each other die. Considerate of me, no?”

The guards pull him back again, throwing him inside the next cell, and Q is out of sight. It’s a small comfort, at least, to know that he’s only a wall away.

“Do you know where you are, little brother?” Franz says, glancing up, up and to the missing ceiling. “This is a solar oven. When the sun rises, you and your MI6 boyfriend will slowly cook, like _meat_ ; but don’t worry, it will take hours.”

There’s a heavy pause, and Bond considers a last-ditch attempt at escape.

“Flesh will fall off nicely to bones,” Oberhauser continues, and Bond is _really_ getting tired of supervillain speeches.

“I have a question,” he speaks up, meeting his brother’s stare. “Why all these games? Why not just kill me?”

“A good question,” Franz nods weirdly, snapping his head forward and then slowly backwards. “Well, it’s very simple. The truth is I never wanted you to die – after all, the dead do not feel pain.”

He smiles again like he knows something, like he’s planned all of this ahead of time. His eyes are piercing, their glare intense, and they’re all Bond can focus on. He wishes he didn’t know them so well. Franz breaks their stare suddenly, taking in a breath and pursing his lips together.

“I’d like to stay, James, I really would, but I’m on a rather… _strict_ timetable.” He speaks from the doorway, framed by its shape of artificial light, hands clasped softly in front of him.

James shuffles back a few inches, futilely pulling at the ties around his wrists.

“Besides, there really isn’t anything to see. Too bright for the naked eye.”

The door closes with a heavy clang and several groaning creaks, and footsteps echo away from him.

He breathes heavily for a minute, trying to ignore his own injuries as he remembers what’s just next door. There’s no sound from the parallel cell, no evidence that Q’s there at all other than the haunting image Bond had seen of him earlier.

“Q,” he says, not too loudly. There are a couple of tiny air vents near the base of the wall, and he hopes his voice carries through them. “Q!”

There’s no answer.

He recalls Q’s appearance, trying to make plans of what immediate care the Quartermaster would need if they got out, trying to map out injuries, trying to reassure himself that Q is still there and still breathing, his heart still beating.

It’s unnerving not to be able to see him, knowing what condition he’s in.

It’s intensely frustrating that he isn’t able to help, because Q could be dying, could be bleeding out, and Bond can’t do shit. It’s frightening, and rather odd that he no longer has the man’s voice in his ear, telling him what to do.

He’s worried. James Bond is _worried_ for a 34-year-old tech genius, and that’s a new one.

Thin strips of light begin to stretch their fingers down the dirty red metal walls of his cell, the deep night sky fading into a pastel morning. It won’t be long before they reach him in the corner, and he considers Q, slumped against the far wall and not best protected, unable to move. He calls out for Q again, shouting his name, but there’s still nothing.

It’s been a long day; James hasn’t slept in over 24 hours, and while the exhaustion is not alien to him, it’s certainly not pleasant. He fights against his bonds, wrists stinging and bleeding where the zip ties cut into his skin, and says Q’s name again. _God_ , he just wishes he could fucking _see_ him.

The light is filling half the space now, the metal floor and walls glowing and shining blindingly in the intense, desert sunrise. It’s getting hot.

 

Q hears a muffled voice, but most of his focus is on the light pressing on his eyelids, his head throbbing violently at the intrusion. He’s so _tired_ , he just wants to go back to sleep.

He lapses in and out for a while, not quite sure how much time passes between each period of alertness, but he can feel heat around him and the light is only growing brighter, more painful. It pisses him off almost as much as the countless wounds and bruises across his body, and he fights to open his eyes, knowing that- that there’s something. Something he needs to do. The voice – the voice is familiar. Important.

 

“Q!” James shouts, more and more desperate, the sun almost touching him now, metal hissing and sizzling where the light touches.

The answer is quiet, barely audible even if there wasn’t a wall between them. Bond has to strain to hear it.

“007…”

All the air in Bond’s lungs whooshes out at once, relief bubbling through his chest despite the imminent danger they’re in.

“Q,” he breathes, leaning closer to the tiny vents. “Q, you’re okay. Stay awake for me.”

There’s no reply, but at least Bond knows that Q’s capable of speaking. He shuffles and hunches himself over to avoid the destructive force of the sun, pulling at his binds. “It’s getting bloody hot. Any ideas?”

A few weak shuffling sounds come from next door, and a strained groan, before the Quartermaster is able to speak again.

“The watch…” Q stops to swallow painfully, his mouth dry and metallic-tasting. “007.”

“ _What_?” Bond hisses, worrying about delirium, about blood loss and confusion.

“The watch…” Q repeats, louder but no stronger. His voice is wrecked, scratchy and breaking. “I lied about- the watch…”

Realisation dawns over Bond; he begins struggling to get the watch off his wrist while his hands are still tied behind his back, squirming anxiously. Q coughs hollowly, and it only spurs James on. The sun is on his skin now, ferocious and blistering, and he’ll be covered in burns in mere minutes.

The watch strap is slipping away from his sweat-slick skin infuriatingly slowly, but it’s _shifting_. For every millimetre the watch moves, so does the stretch of the sun – one measure of new pain, one measure closer to escape. When the hairs on Bond’s arms begin to singe, the watch drops into his open palm.

He twists his body around as quickly as possible, putting his back to the door and straining to look over his shoulder. As carefully as he can manage, he turns the bezel to 0, then around again to 0, then to 7, and the face and numbers light up red. Dropping the watch on the floor, he turns again and lines his foot up with it, then gives it a smooth kick. It skitters across the metal ground and disappears under the door.

Barely ten seconds after, a huge explosion ruptures just outside, and Bond ducks his head to his knees. The door crumples and blows inwards, falling smoking off its hinges, and there are shouts in the hallway. The agent manages to climb to his feet, escaping the rapidly-rising heat. Both guards are on the floor outside, one unmoving, the other reaching for his gun and blocking the path to Q’s cell. Bond kicks the man’s hand, unable to use his arms, his weapon skating across the floor to Q’s feet.

The henchman dives for the other guard’s weapon, and James can’t get to him in time, off balance from the kick he’d thrown. The man turns with the gun, and Bond stares down its barrel, his hands finally breaking free from the zip ties, waiting for the bullet to find its-

_Bang!_

The guard drops to the floor, slumped onto his front – dead.

The gun shakes in Q’s hand, his other arm hanging limp from his manacles, eyes wide and unblinking. He looks haunted, even beneath all the blood, his breaths shallow as he stares up at Bond.

“Sometimes a trigger has to be pulled,” James says softly, repeating the words Q had said all that time ago.

The gun drops with a clatter to the floor, and Bond rushes forwards to catch Q as he collapses. The sun is roasting them now, and James works quickly to haul Q agonisingly up, half-dragging him out of the cell as he struggles to find his feet. He leans the Quartermaster against the wall outside, letting him centre himself.

Bond grabs a knife from one of the guard’s belts, slicing efficiently through the plastic around Q’s wrists. Without thinking, he cradles the younger man’s hands in his, looking at the raw damage left on his slender fingers and clammy palms. When he glances up, Q’s looking at him strangely, his eyes bleary but focused solely on the agent’s face, and Bond hurriedly moves to the Quartermaster’s side.

“Come on, we need to get you out of here,” he says, slinging the man’s arm over his shoulder.

“You too,” Q murmurs, clenching his teeth as pain rips through his body.

They walk through corridor upon corridor – Q often trips and collapses, and Bond pretends he isn’t scared shitless for him. He’d picked up the gun earlier, and has to use it a couple of times to take out other guards that mill around various points on their path to escape. The facility is something of a maze, but they manage to find an exit and begin walking out on the dusty earth, under the bright morning light.

Henchmen are onto them already – Bond gives over his smaller gun to Q, whose hands tremble, and picks up a semi-automatic assault rifle from a guard he just knocked unconscious, firing at the black-clad men that are shooting at them. None of them have very good aim, but they’re gaining on him and Q and their poor shots will find a mark sooner rather than later.

“ _In there!_ ” Bond shouts over the noise, pushing Q towards the roof shelter of a small, strange-looking building.

007 reloads his gun, looking back at Q for a long second, before stepping out into the line of fire. Another explosion goes off, Bond having shot a gas supply, and they use the time to turn to the perimeter of the facility.

There are more guards coming at them through the security gates, but they’re all on the ground in under 10 seconds.

A helicopter is running, engine on, up a long flight of stone steps. It takes moments for them to start moving.

Q’s legs keep giving way, and Bond can hear him groaning and his breath catching as they walk. He’s not even had time to check the man’s injuries yet. They keep walking, step by step, even when it seems like Q’s about to give up.

“Talk to me,” James says sharply, eyes darting restlessly from side to side in case anyone else comes jumping out of the shadows.

“What? About- what?” Q asks dumbly, his weight increasing on Bond’s shoulders.

“Anything,” the agent says, desperate for the younger man to stay awake. It’s testament enough to his state that he doesn’t understand right away what Bond is trying to do.

“The explosions you just caused, they’re concentrated… on the cooling system of the furnace,” Q begins, panting. “The computer will overheat and… cause a chain reaction…“

“And?” James prompts, mainly focusing on getting Q up this long climb.

“Two possible outcomes,” Q’s knees give way again, but he hauls himself up, and they finally reach the top of the steps. “The first will just bypass the security and… destroy the system.”

“And the second?”

“It’s complicated to explain, but if… the system is overworked – to its limit – I think it will-“

Behind them, there’s a deafening explosion, then another, then more – one by one, the buildings all go up in flames, everything within them being instantly destroyed. The two men turn slowly to face the heat, watching the facility inside the huge crater burn to the ground.

“I think I get it,” Bond says, smiling with the corners of his lips.

Q shakes his head with affectionate exasperation in reply, and begins to laugh – albeit weakly – but James can’t help joining in. They _survived_ , and every moment of it seems ridiculous. Not even the most time-hardened agents can deny the giddy feeling of success when they make it out alive against impossible odds.

Q leans forward while he’s still chuckling breathlessly, pressing his forehead to Bond’s chest, and James wraps his arms around the younger man.

He hadn’t realised how fucking relieved he is that Q is okay, okay and _alive_ , until he threads his fingers through Q’s wild hair, breathes in his slightly smoky scent. Bond closes his eyes, allowing all thoughts of his mission to dissipate for as long as he can afford to.

Bond doesn’t talk to people _after_ – he’s come back silent from plenty of missions where Q had listened in on him seducing marks, and even if he gets involved with a fellow agent, 007 will never talk of it afterwards. Bond returns to Q Branch with his usual easy smiles and quick wit, and Q always watches quietly as the agent throws himself into more intense training, drinks more alcohol, shows more recklessness, to destroy all emotions he’d had to uncover while undercover. 007 doesn’t _talk_.

What’s done is done, and all that.

For now, Q’s going to take whatever comfort he can get, and when that comes in the form of a 00 agent that’s been both pissing him off and intriguing him for the past two years, he’s not going to turn it down. He rests his tired weight on 007, letting himself sink into the man’s warmth. Q just breathes for a minute, focusing on not losing consciousness, his mind exhausted and his body battered.

He pulls back slightly, lifting his head away from 007’s chest, tilting his face up towards the agent. James’s blue eyes look back down at him, holding tight to Q’s elbows, panting slightly. James doesn’t look like a hero or an angel, even with the brilliant light on his skin – he just looks tired.

Not stopping to think, Q leans up, and presses his lips to Bond’s.

The reaction is almost instant – James gives back more than he receives, pushing into the kiss with just the right amount of pressure, and Q suddenly realises why so many people fall under this man’s spell.

They share breath for long seconds, lips moving forcefully, relief and passion fuelling them for more, _more_ , and Q is overwhelmed by every touch. James’s hands come up to cup Q’s face, his rough fingers stroking gently over the younger man’s cheekbones, his grip keeping Q pressed against him. It’s enough to make the Quartermaster dizzy.

The kiss doesn’t last for long. But when they break away, lips still only inches apart, James’s rough palms stay on the skin of Q’s face, his icy eyes mapping out Q’s features for an endless few seconds. Bond’s eyes hold something desperately sad inside them – like he’s urgently trying to hold onto this moment, committing it to memory.

Q can’t bear to look at him.

“Do you think Oberhauser is dead?” he asks, forcefully pulling himself away from 007’s touch and trying not to trip over his own feet.

“No.” Bond says succinctly, their eyes locked. “It’s not over yet.”

“Right, well,” Q says, breaking the heavy mood that’s fallen across Bond’s face. “London calls.”

James takes in a breath and nods once. “Let’s go home.”

 

They get in the helicopter without too much trouble, but the adrenaline in Q’s body is quickly fizzling out, leaving him drowsy and in pain. Bond can’t see anyone heading towards them – especially not after the explosion – so steals a little time to tend to the Quartermaster. Settled in the passenger seat, Q looks pale and slumped. His hands still shake, and there’s barely-disguised panic in his deep eyes.

“I killed someone, James,” he says quietly, and it’s hard to miss the haunted look on his face.

There’s not much Bond can say to that, so he says nothing instead. It’s something Q will have to adjust to, even if James never wanted him to have to face this situation.

“Injury report,” Bond orders to distract him, already pulling back the Quartermaster’s tattered stripy jumper.

“Concussion, injured wrists, burns, minor wounds to face and torso, beaten… everything,” Q begins listing, eyes scanning himself to check he’s not missing anything. “Bullet wound in upper left arm – blood loss from that – a couple of broken ribs-“

“ _Jesus_ , Q,” Bond curses, suddenly ripping open the knitted jumper around Q’s arm and chest, more frantic in his movements than before. He tries desperately not to think about how Q was _tortured_ for protecting him, focusing on his bloodstained flesh. “You should have said something earlier.”

“While we were getting shot at or while we were getting shot at?” Q quips, and Bond gets to admire his smile for all of two seconds before he ruins it by pressing down on the still sluggishly-bleeding gunshot wound.

Q’s back arches jerkily and he shouts in pain, hissing through his teeth as he slumps down again. Bond rips a strip of fabric off the bottom of his own shirt, wadding it up and pushing it against the mess of flesh.

“Pressure,” James says, guiding Q’s red, dirty hand to hold the makeshift dressing down.

Q nods slightly, the blood smeared across his neck and dried in long lines down his face standing out in stark contrast to his white-tinged skin. Bond thinks of snow and a cold hotel room floor.

He reaches out, skimming his hands along Q’s ribcage to feel for damage.

Q starts talking, voice wavering and tense. “Did you get a – _fuck!_ – bloody postcard in the end?”

James smirks, feeling the breaks in the bones beneath his fingers. “Didn’t find the time, I’m afraid.”

“P-poor effort on your behalf.” Q hisses in pain, and James almost says sorry. “So I’ll be expecting one from somewhere romantic within- within the next month.”

James’s eyes dart up, blue and piercing, and Q feels suddenly vulnerable. He licks his chapped and bloodstained lips, trying to focus on James’s face without his glasses. The agent’s rough hands slow to a stop where they rest on his chest.

Q holds their stare for a long time, but James looks sad again – sad and tired and broken, eyebrows slightly pulled together. So Q reaches up, maps the tributaries and cliff faces etched into Bond’s skin with the tips of his fingers. He touches from the hinge of James’s jaw, over the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, then traces down his cheek, to the sweep of his lips and chin.

007 moves quickly, grabbing a discarded coat from the back of the copter, laying it swiftly over Q’s bare skin.

“It’ll get cold up there,” he explains curtly, but it’s soft, somehow tender. “Nothing I can do for your ribs. Don’t move too much.”

 _That’s that, then_ , Q thinks.

They take off with ease, the loud spin of the blades drowning out all thought and feeling.

Q spends a long time focusing on the ghost of touch on his lips, the ache in his chest almost like grief, then falls into a fitful, shallow sleep.

 

~*~

 

James doesn’t even bother to call for medical evac when they arrive back in London.

Q refuses to be seen to as long as C and Oberhauser are still a threat, tapping away at Moneypenny’s laptop to get through the multiple impenetrable walls of security surrounding the Nine Eyes launch.

He nearly gets shot in the head, sees C fall to his death, and watches Bond point a gun at Oberhauser’s face on Westminster Bridge, before the weakness takes over.

James walks to Madeleine, taking her hand, and Q feels the skin of his knees break as they hit concrete.

Moneypenny’s arms fold around him, lowering him down to stare at the black sky, and the pressure of Tanner’s hands on his body and the sound of Eve’s shouts for help are the last things he knows before darkness swallows the world.

 

~*~

 

 _Bond’s not holding my hand_ , strangely enough, is Q’s first thought upon waking.

For some reason, he presumed Bond would be. Or someone, at least.

Instead, when he opens his heavy eyes, he’s greeted with an empty room. He thinks of Madeleine Swann, and of love and loss, and turns his head away from the vacant chair.

It doesn’t take long for him to slip under the influence of the morphine again.

 

~*~

 

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Q accuses, two days later.

James settles himself in the bedside chair, and Moneypenny makes a _face_ from the doorway, before leaving with a clip of her heels.

“Being interrogated by half the bloody government, actually,” Bond says, folding his hands over his stomach, leant back in the seat. Q can see through the illusion of relaxation.

“Not a good enough excuse,” Q whinges, and one corner of Bond’s mouth quirks.

Q may still sound like his usual self, but the dark bruises under his eyes betray his exhaustion. Medical want to keep him in for another week at least, but Bond doubts the Quartermaster will do as told for that long. For now, Q seems too tired to bother trying to escape the clutch of the nurses.

“I told you not to move too much,” James says, flicking his eyes down to the bandages wrapped around Q’s chest that just peek over the neck of his gown.

“Because you’re the poster boy for following orders,” Q jibes, but his face is pained.

One of his broken ribs had nicked the edge of his lung, but thankfully not punctured it. The internal bleeding certainly wasn’t helped by him spending a whole day and a half working through the pain, refusing to do anything except wrap a few bits of cloth around the worst of his injuries.

“Oberhauser’s been taken in, as I understand?” Q starts, and Bond admires how he doesn’t try to tiptoe around the subject.

Bond nods. “Expecting a long and tedious sentence, no doubt.” He glances to one of the monitors that pulses steadily by the bed. “M and Eve – and you – have your jobs back.”

“What about you?” Q asks, and James tries not to think about how loaded that question could be.

“The 00 program isn’t going anywhere, thanks to you.”

“ _Christ_. Really shot myself in the foot with that one.”

Q turns his head to the side, shifting with discomfort as his ribs and arm twinge, looking at the neat arrangement of daffodils that sits on his bedside table. They’d been there when he’d woken for the second time, Moneypenny at his side, his hand clasped within hers.

“Do you need me to get someone?”

Bond sounds concerned, and by now, Q isn’t too surprised.

“ _No_ ,” he says quickly, finally adjusting himself into a slightly more comfortable position. “How’s M? I haven’t seen him yet.”

“Stressed,” Bond sniffs, relaxing a little himself.

Q hesitates for a moment. “And you?”

“Peachy,” James says. “If a little on the poached side.”

Q huffs a small laugh, brushing his fingers over his blanket. Bond is talking – and even if it’s in two word sentences, Q feels unnaturally proud of himself for wringing honesty out of the hardened man.

There’s an easy silence while Q studies Bond’s neutral face, finding that it’s surprisingly _not_ neutral. It’s pained.

“Dr Swann?” he finally asks.

“Gone home,” James answers. “They’re finding somewhere safe for her.”

Q looks at him carefully. “You’re not going after her?”

“No.” Bond ducks his head, hiding his face for a few seconds to compose himself. “Meeting five days ago thanks to her father’s suicide and getting to know each other while under the constant threat of imminent death isn’t the most solid base for a relationship.”

There’s another heavy pause.

“I’d hasten to say you’re being a little negative there, 007,” Q says, and his eyes smile where his lips don’t.

They sit in silence for a while, Bond staring at where the blankets roll over Q’s thigh, Q pressing the button to give himself a little more morphine.

“She said she couldn’t go back to this life,” James reveals softly, and with surprising feeling.

Q’s become accustomed to hearing the detached tone while 007 talks of people he’d grown close to before their inevitable and untimely demise. He wonders if he’ll be one of them someday.

“And that she couldn’t ask me to change who I am. Because _this_ is who I am.”

A small, bitter laugh escapes from Bond’s lips, and he runs a hand down the length of his face.

“So _damn_ her. Because she’s bloody right.”

Q’s gaze is flat and firm. He’s listening, not handing back unwanted advice – just _listening_. James can’t remember the last time someone just listened.

“She said I was a ‘good man’, too,” James adds sullenly.

His eyes are sad again when he looks up, and Q wants to reach his hand forward.

“You _are_ a good man, James,” Q says quietly, pleading for Bond to agree with him. “Despite what I say and have said…”

James looks at him.

“You’re one of the best men I’ve ever known.”

Even covered in cuts, bruises, and wires and lying in a loose gown on a hospital bed, the Quartermaster is still as persuasive as he is behind a computer screen, talking smoothly into James’s earwig. He looks softer, somehow, without his glasses on.

“I suppose you’re all right,” James admits reluctantly, but there’s a spark in the dark pupils of his eyes.

“I’ve been in captivity for two days, stuck in medical for another four, and helped bring down your terrorist foster brother who threatened to wreak havoc on international security, and _that’s_ all you have to say to me?”

James finally lets his face light up with a blinding smile, shaking his head with amusement. Only seconds later, he stands decisively to his feet as if afraid of staying still any longer.

“I’m glad you’re safe, Q,” he says.

Q looks up at him, biting back on a retort and resisting letting anything slip about _it_ , no matter how much he aches to.

 _Not after_ , he reminds himself, _never after_.

James shoves his hands in his pockets, looking at his Quartermaster with deliberate mischief in his manner.

“To rebirth, eternal life,” he says, “and new beginnings.”

“Bottoms up,” Q smiles, and watches his agent leave.

The room is colder without him, but the yellow of the daffodils seems more brilliant.

 

~*~

 

Q sits with his back to Bond, the cut of the gown revealing the purple-yellow bruises that spread like ink across the skin over his spine. He unties it from around his neck, letting it fall forwards and away from his chest, then twists to reach for the t-shirt sitting on the bed.

James fiddles with the prototype for another watch, a side project that Q’s been working on while confined to his bed. It’s better than anything Bond could even _attempt_ to create sat amongst all the best equipment in MI6, and he beams a little thinking about it. Sometimes he expresses to Eve his fear that Q could probably destroy the world if he wanted, and she – generally – unreservedly agrees.

Bond remembers the first time he met the Quartermaster, and no longer doubts what Q _could_ do in his pyjamas, considering what he’s _done_ injured in a gown.

“Are you going to help me or not?”

Q’s voice snaps James out of his silent reverie. He’s struggling with the t-shirt, trying to lift it over his head without pulling on his ribs.

“No.”

Q’s head swivels to look over his shoulder. “And why not?”

“Firstly,” James begins, “you’d probably tell me to fuck off if I did, and secondly, well… I’m a little busy enjoying the view.”

Bond hears Q mutter “ _cheeky bastard_ ” under his breath as he finally manages to get his head through the hole, then starts agonisingly directing his arms through the sleeves.

When he gets his second arm through, panting a little from the exertion, Bond lightly touches the back of his neck, the hairs there standing on end. James helps pull down the t-shirt all the way, smoothing the delicate, soft fabric over the planes of Q’s back. It must be well loved to be that way, washed over and over and worn thin.

Q’s aware of the magnitude of what Bond is doing. James isn’t pretending – for once, he’s acknowledging what happened. It may not be spoken yet, but somehow… he’s letting Q in.

Q knows what daffodils symbolise, that James recognised them – new beginnings, rebirth, eternal life. He thinks about Moneypenny, and the colour doesn’t fit right.

“Come on, on your feet, Quartermaster,” Bond says, breaking the train of thought, coming around the bed to help Q stand securely. It’s a bit of a struggle, but once he’s found his sea legs again it gets easier.

“You only want me back at work so you can have your exploding pen,” Q grumbles, leaning on Bond as they take a few steps.

James’s body is warm and solid at his side, reassuring and _alive_. For now, with James’s palm print seared on his neck, it’s enough.

 

~*~

 

“Working on 007’s next disaster?” Moneypenny asks, walking up to Q’s desk with her usual swaying step.

“As always,” Q sighs, laying down said gadget. “Exploding gun, this time. Might as well make an extra use out of it before it ends up at the bottom of the ocean.”

“Not quite the pen he was after then,” Eve smiles, and Q feels suddenly at ease.

“Not quite. Anyway, what can I do for you, Ms Moneypenny?”

She lays a couple of manila folders down on his cluttered desk. “Oh, just a few more debrief papers, and 003’s next assignment details. Nothing _too_ exciting.”

“Courtesy of M, I presume?” Q says, and sighs.

“Of course,” Eve says, tapping her blue-painted nails on the other files in her arms.

Q takes a look over the documents before throwing them back on the desk, eyes tired and body still aching slightly. A few beeps sound through the office, and he redirects his attention from the woman playing with his magnifying glass to the text he just received.

_Postcard’s on the way. J_

Q smiles.

“Is it James?” Moneypenny asks, but her face says she already knows the answer.

“Yes,” Q says, firing off a quick reply.

_It better be scenic. Best wishes, Q_

“I’m still trying to get over him not coming to see me in medical for _four days_ ,” Q complains, angrily typing a few lines of detailed code into MI6’s newest security system. “You remember Washington? When he came back from that, I was at his bedside in minutes. With _chocolates_.”

Moneypenny laughs, the sound sweet and pleasing.

“I’ll get someone to put the kettle on,” she says, and starts walking backwards to the door.

Q sags in his chair, looking up at her with a fond and grateful expression. “Thank you, Eve.”

Sometimes he wonders if she can read his mind.

“And, Q?” Moneypenny says, one delicate hand resting on the doorframe.

“Yes?” Q answers, fingers poised on his keyboard.

“Who do you think brought you the daffodils?”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me at [my tumblr](http://emistiel.tumblr.com) ❤ All comments are appreciated, and a happy new year to all!!


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